Seven Percent
by Raven'sDesk221b
Summary: Sherlock is kidnapped and tortured so that he can be taught a lesson. Unfortunately, his kidnapper had a bit too much insight and Sherlock is left on the brink of relapse. Sequel to 'Firsts'
1. Chapter 1

It was cold and rainy and the roof leaked. John's shoulder hurt, as it often did when it rained, and he would much rather be in his nice warm bed with his personal space heater, otherwise known and Sherlock Holmes, instead of at a fairly gruesome double homicide, but he had known what he was signing up for when he started sleeping with the detective, so he really couldn't complain too much. It had been a little over three months since the two had begun sharing a bed, and other than Mrs. Hudson (and Mycroft, the nosy bastard) no one knew about the change in their relationship; not that that had ever stopped them from talking.

The case, although gruesome, was relatively simple, at least for Sherlock, and within a few minutes he had declared it to be a "boring" gang killing and left it in Lestrade's "somewhat capable hands" before taking his leave of the crime scene. John would have been right behind him, except Lestrade had stopped him with an invitation to the pub. John was trying to turn him down as quickly and politely as possible - it had been a while since Sherlock had left him at a crime scene, but that was something that John never took for granted - when Sherlock yelled his name in that tone that told him something was definitely wrong.

John took off running and arrived just in time to see an unconscious Sherlock being bundled into the back of a van. John lunged forward and tried to pull him out. One of the masked men hit him over the head with something hard and everything went black.

When John came to, everything was in turmoil. Lestrade was issuing orders as fast as he could and everyone else was scrambling to obey them. Lestrade noticed that John was awake and stopped to answer his unvoiced question.

"John, I'm sorry," his voice sounded pained and uncomfortable, "but there's no sign of him. He's just gone." It was, quite frankly, the answer that John had been expecting, but hearing it said out loud was still something of a shock. He rolled over and emptied his stomach into the gutter.

When Sherlock woke up his first thought was of John. His head was pounding, it hurt to breathe, and he didn't even want to think about opening his eyes, but he didn't really care about any of that - all he really cared about was whether or not John was going to be there when he finally did open his eyes. He wasn't entirely sure which he preferred.

After a few moments he decided that he really did have to evaluate his injuries and situation. Ribs injured - bruised not broken. Head injured - likely not concussed. He had been injected with something unidentified, but it didn't seem to have any lasting side effects. He was tied to a wooden chair with thick, coarse ropes so tight that it was sure to bruise and chafe. His shirt and shoes had been removed. He could feel the almost frigid air around him and the freezing concrete beneath his feet. He gathered that they were in a deserted warehouse, probably on the outskirts of the city. He just wished he knew how long he had been unconscious. Finally, he opened his eyes. John wasn't there. A bald man with a gun was.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes, welcome back." Russian, Holmes identified. He had been in the UK long enough to almost entirely lose his accent, but nevertheless - Russian. Sherlock didn't say anything and the man kept talking, examining the butt of his gun, "It's a shame, really. Your little doctor got blood on my gun. You'd think that it'd be a bit more difficult to bash a soldier over the head. But then again, he's not a very good soldier, now is he?" Sherlock tensed, almost as much because of the insult as the idea of John being injured. If he noticed the Russian didn't show it, "No Mr. Holmes, I have heard that you're rather fond of riding crops."

Sherlock forced himself to relax as the man approached and brought the riding crop down on the side of his face, harder than Irene Adler had ever hit him. He forced himself not to make a sound. The Russian hit him again and again, covering his face, arms, torso, and legs with bruises. After twenty minutes the Russian tired and returned to his original position without a word. Sherlock was breathing heavily, but other than a bit of wheezing and panting, he remained silent.

"Mr. Holmes, I must say that I'm impressed by your silence. I was told that I wouldn't ever get you to shut up. Your soldier must be training you well," The Russian said, sounding slightly out of breath. I think that you deserve a reward for your silence 7% solution is what you prefer, correct?" Sherlock's eyes widened and his whole body tensed as the man approached with a syringe.

John's head was pounding. He had a concussion but had refused to stay in the hospital. And so he was sitting in Lestrade's office with a splitting headache and a growing sense of panic. Sherlock had been missing for six hours and they still had no idea who had taken him, let alone where he was. One of the worst parts for John was that no one knew that they were anything more than flatmates and colleagues, so he was unable to show how much his friend's disappearance affected him.

After seven hours they had still made no progress and John was no longer able to keep his eyes open. He lay down on the couch in Lestrade's office and quickly fell into a restless sleep. Twenty minutes later he woke to Lestrade shaking him by the shoulder.

"Dr. Watson," the DI said calmly, "a courier just brought a package for you. We think it might be from the kidnappers." John sat up straight and somehow managed to keep his hands from shaking as he was handed a small box wrapped in plain brown paper. Inside was a used syringe and a USB drive. John's heart was pounding as they gathered around Lestrade's computer to play the video file.

The video had no sound, and John couldn't decide if that was a good thing or not. The camera was focused on Sherlock, who was tied to a chair in the middle of a concrete room, and a rather large bald man with a riding crop. They watched for almost twenty minutes as the bald man very thoroughly whipped the detective. Despite the lack of sound, John was willing to bet that his friend had remained silent the entire time. When Baldy finally got tired of the riding crop he walked off camera for a few moment before returning with a syringe in his hand. As the needle went into his arm, John recognized the look of absolute terror in Sherlock's eyes. Then the screen went black.

After that John had to throw up and Lestrade sent him home, promising to call the moment they heard anything new. John had never felt so useless in his entire life. He took a cab back to Baker Street and told himself that he would only sleep for four hours before figuring out how to find Sherlock.

John walked into the sitting room and stopped short. There was a young man sitting quietly on the sofa, waiting. His clothes had once been nice, but were now threadbare and dirty. His hair was greasy, he hadn't shaved in several days and his beard was growing in scruffy, and he was filthy. When John walked in the man stood up but remained silent.

The soldier cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. "Well hello. Who are you?"

The man extended his hand for John to shake. "I'm Wiggins; Mr. Holmes uses me to communicate with his network. Are you Dr. Watson?"

John nodded, shaking his hand. "Yes, I'm John Watson. I'm sorry, but Holmes isn't here. I don't know when he'll be back."

Wiggins nodded. "I know. We've heard that he's missing, kidnapped. I was sent here to see if it's true."

John sighed. "It's true. He's been missing for eight hours now. The police have no leads."

"We want to help," Wiggins answered determinedly. "We often see things and hear things that the police don't."

"Of course," John agreed; "I wish I could give you some information to go on, but we don't really know much." He pulled out the print off of the bald abductor and handed it to Wiggins. "This is one of his kidnappers. I think he's being held in a warehouse of some sort. They've also been injecting him with some kind of drug. We're not sure what it is, but I'd be willing to bet that it's cocaine."

Wiggins nodded. "Thank you; this'll certainly help. And don't worry Dr. Watson, we'll bring him back to you." They shook hands again and then Wiggins was gone. John shuffled tiredly into the bedroom and collapsed on the bed he shared with Sherlock. He was asleep almost before he his head hit the pillow.

When Sherlock came down from his high he had been moved. He was still in the same room, but was no longer tied to the chair. He missed the chair. Now, he was bound by the wrists with his arms raised above his head. He was hanging from an exposed pipe, his feet dangling above the ground His shoulders were beginning to hurt and he was really starting to miss that chair. And John. He missed John far more than he had expected.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and tried to keep his thoughts focused on John. John who was calm and strong and who could suffer a ridiculous amount of pain without ever showing it; well, he showed it, but you'd have to be Sherlock to see it, and even then you'd never be quite sure. John, who Sherlock just knew was going to come for him - it might take him a while, but Sherlock never for a moment doubted that John would come for him. All he had to do was wait.

Sherlock's head was still pounding and he was so out of it that he didn't even realize that someone else was in the room until a fist collided with his side. Moments later the first pounded into his stomach, and had he eaten anything more than some toast in the past 24 hours he would have vomited. He prepared himself to accept another hit, but it never came. Instead a metal rod was placed gently on his back, administering an electric shock that shook his entire body. It wasn't strong enough to be fatal, or to have any lasting effects, but it was more than enough to hurt like hell. He tried to keep focused and managed to keep from screaming.

When the Russian finished with the electricity he prepared and administered another syringe.

Five days. It had been five days since Sherlock had been taken and John was well on his way to losing his mind. Lestrade and Scotland Yard had absolutely nothing, Sherlock's homeless network knew that there was a Russian Immigrant with gang ties purchasing cocaine not for personal use or distribution, but they didn't know where he was staying, and probably most frightening of all was the fact that even Mycroft was unable to locate his brother.

John was sitting in Lestrade's office when his phone finally range. His heart was pounding as he answered, putting it on speaker in hopes that it actually was the kidnappers.

"Hello Dr. Watson, would you like to hear from your detective?" A slightly accented voice drawled, obviously trying to sound bored and obviously the farthest thing from bored.

John grit his teeth. "Actually, I'd like to know where he is so that I can come and get him. I live with him; I know was a complete pain in the arse he can be. Let me take him off your hands for you."

The kidnapper laughed. "I've actually found him to be quite pliant and docile - like a kitten. I think that you just don't know how to handle him. I can make him do anything I want." John flexed and unflexed his left hand, imagining putting a bullet in the man's skull. He kept talking. "Now, I called so that you could hear from the detective himself." There was rustling and crackling as the phone was put on speaker. Then there was a flurry of movement and all of a sudden Sherlock was screaming. Loud, blood-curdling screams that made John's jaw clench and his insides twist into knots.

After a few minutes the screaming subsided into whimpers and John spoke, his voice loud and steady. "Sherlock Holmes, listen to me, I am going to find you. Do you hear me? I will find you and come and get you. I promise; I will find you."

"John?" Sherlock gasped. "John, please, John, John, John." The detective's voice was broken and pained, but he kept talking, "John, please John, please. Please. I want to go home. John, please don't leave me, John. I'm sorry John. John…" The phone went off speaker and John could no longer hear Sherlock's cries.

"What is it that you want?" John bit out through clenched teeth.

The man laughed. "What are you willing to give me?"

John took a deep breath to calm himself down before answering. "There's not a list of what I can and cannot give you. Tell me what you want and I'll do my best to give it to you. But you have to tell me what you want."

"Alright, I'll tell you what I want," he replied, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I want to make him scream. I want to make him cry. I want to break him. And when I'm done with him he'll know better than to try and fight a dragon. What do you have to say about that Dr. Watson?"

Watson lowered his voice menacingly. "That was the wrong answer, because now it's really very personal. I will find you and I will make you pay for every scream. You will regret this very much; I promise you that."

"I wish you the best of luck with that Dr. Watson," the man answered smugly before the line went dead.

The room was silent for a few moments before Lestrade cleared his throat and asked, "John, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he bit out through clenched teeth, "and I'll be a lot more fine when you find the bastard who's doing this. I think I need some air; call me if you hear anything new."

John replayed his exchange with the kidnapper over and over again. There was something he was missing, something important; he knew it was there, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. He walked for hours, that one awful conversation on repeat in his head, interrupted only by the memory of Sherlock's cries.

Several hours later John realized that he hadn't eaten in over twelve hours and that he was actually hungry. He went into a nearby Chinese restaurant and tried not to feel too guilty for being there without Sherlock. Half way through his meal he had an epiphany. He was staring at the dragon painting on the wall when he remembered something about a gang that was becoming prominent whose symbol was a dragon. He threw some money on the table and went to find Wiggins.

Sherlock had lied when he told The Woman that he never begged. There were two things that could always make him beg: John Watson, and Cocaine. Now he was begging for both. He had lost all track of how long he had been gone; all he knew was that it had been 30 hours since he had last been given a hit. He was starting to go through withdrawals, but his captors hadn't left him to do so in peace. Every hour on the hour he was drenched with buckets of cold water and when the Russian returned with the riding crop, he couldn't stop himself from screaming.

He was left twitching and shaking after one such session when he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. He flinched when the door banged open, afraid of what was coming next. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus his thoughts on John for comfort. He heard someone approach him, but was surprised when a hand was placed tenderly on his cheek. He slowly opened his eyes and found John kneeling in front of him, worry etched into his face.

John smiled when he opened his eyes. "Hey there Sherlock; it's good to see you. I'm going to untie you now, but I need you to stay sitting down. Do you understand me?" Sherlock nodded, unable to make his voice work. John moved carefully as he removed the detective's bonds, not wanting to cause his friend any additional pain. Sherlock couldn't keep from whimpering as the doctor's hands brushed against his raw skin.

Once he was free, Sherlock carefully rested his hands in his lap and tried not to wince as John began his gentle examination. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the feeling of John's calm, steady hands on his body. He thought about what a good doctor John was - able to keep his touches a perfectly comforting balance between tender and clinical; Sherlock relaxed in the knowledge that he was being cared for by someone so competent. It wasn't until John, looking for signs of infection, began examining his new track marks that Sherlock flinched.

"John, I'm sorry," he said, his voice hoarse. "I'm so sorry."

John shook his head. "Sherlock, you don't have anything to be sorry for. This isn't your fault. The paramedics will be here in a few minutes, and then we can get you out of here. Alright?" Sherlock nodded and then reached up and wrapped his hand around the back of John's neck.

"I missed you."

John smiled and turned his head to place a quick kiss on his friend's palm. "I missed you too." Sherlock pulled on his neck, tugging him closer; John hesitated for a moment before leaning in and letting the detective kiss him. The both closed their eyes and promptly forgot that anyone else even existed. Sherlock hesitantly pushed his tongue forward and John welcomed it with a contented sigh, despite the lack of recent dental hygiene. Neither man was fighting for dominance; instead, both were merely reacquainting themselves with the other's mouth. John reached up and ran his fingers through Sherlock's dark, soft curls, causing the detective to whimper and tighten his grip on the doctor. The two men didn't even consider separating until a paramedic approached and awkwardly cleared her throat, and even then their kiss didn't end abruptly. John finally took control and gradually slowed their pace until their lips were barely brushing; then the doctor sweetly kissed the corner of his love's mouth one last time before leaning back. Sherlock let his hand drop back into his lap and John stepped back to give the paramedics room to work. He turned and saw Lestrade and his entire team staring at them in silence ranging from shocked to horrified. He just sighed inwardly and turned back to watch Sherlock.


	2. Chapter 2

John was 60% sure that Sherlock was actually asleep. He had just been allowed into Sherlock's room (probably thanks to a call from Mycroft), and a nurse was still getting the detective settled after all of the tests and examinations he had needed. She finally left and John had to fight the urge to grab Sherlock's chart, unsure if the man would consider it an invasion of privacy.

He was startled out of this internal debate by a familiar baritone voice. "You know I'm not actually asleep, right?"

"I knew it was a distinct possibility," he answered with a small smile. "Although I was hoping you were sleeping; your body needs to rest."

Sherlock returned his smile. "I fell asleep during the MRI. And you can look at my chart - I know you want to." The doctor thanked him before taking his chart and forcing himself to appear as neutral as possible as he read the list of injuries: dehydration, malnutrition, slight hypothermia, three bruised ribs, two cracked ribs, electrical burns, lacerations on his back, wrist and chest, and cocaine in his system.

"Well?" Sherlock asked once he finished reading.

John shrugged. "It's better than I expected."

The detective frowned. "What do you mean?"

"While extremely painful," he answered with a sigh, "all of your injuries are relatively superficial. Nothing is life threatening or overly debilitating. You'll be back on your feet within a month and completely healed in six to eight weeks. Most of it won't even scar, and the scars that you will have will be light. Sherlock, you were missing for six days, and I spent the majority of that time convinced you were either dead or dying; this isn't nearly as bad as I expected." Sherlock nodded and attempted a small smile to reassure his friend; John returned the smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. Sherlock frowned. It was obvious that the doctor was worried about something that he wasn't talking about. Unfortunately, the painkillers were making it difficult to think, so he had to go with his best guess.

"John," he said, trying to sound serious and sincere. "I was clean before, I swear. And I'm not going to start using again. This isn't a relapse, not really."

John reached out and took Sherlock's hand in both of his. "I know Sherlock, I know. I'm not really worried about it. It probably won't be easy, but we'll get through it." John squeezed his friend's hand before letting it go and leaned back in his own chair.

Sherlock sighed. "John, what's wrong? I don't understand. I'm fine, you said so yourself, and you know I'm not going to relapse, so why are you so worried? Tell me, please. I don't understand what's bothering you."

John shook his head. "I'm sorry Sherlock, I really am. I was just really relieved and tired. I shouldn't have done it; I know it's not what you wanted. I'm sorry."

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock asked, sighing again.

John winced. "The kiss earlier. Everyone saw. I'm sorry; I know you didn't want anyone to know about us. I'm sorry."

Sherlock blinked a few times, finally understanding. "You think I'm upset because you kissed me in front of other people."

John nodded, refusing to meet his eyes. "I'm sorry. I know you wanted to keep it a secret."

"I'm not upset," he answered, grabbing for his friend's hand. "The only reason I didn't want people to know is that I didn't want to hear what they'd say when you left me. I've since decided that I'd rather not hide you."

"You didn't want anyone to know about us because you were convinced that I'd leave you." The doctor repeated, disbelief and confusion evident in his voice. Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave him a look that clearly said 'you're lucky I like you because I really shouldn't have to put up with stupid questions.'

"It was statistically likely. I do tend to scare people away."

"People are idiots," John replied quickly, shaking his head. "You're not going to scare me away. I'm not leaving. And you can't go through this relationship planning for its end; it's not fair to either of us."

Sherlock nodded. "I know that -" John gave him a look and he added "now. I do, but I didn't when we started this. By the time I figured it out it seemed more than a little awkward for me to just say that I lied in the beginning when I told you why I didn't want anyone to know about us. And besides, you seemed more than fine with the way things were; I didn't want you to feel pressured to tell people if that made you uncomfortable."

"I'm not uncomfortable," John answered with a fond smile, reaching out for his friend's hand again. "I couldn't be more thrilled that I don't have to keep you a secret anymore. Although it would have been nicer if it had happed under less traumatic circumstances."

He smiled. "I'm glad too. Maybe now I won't have to watch people try and pick you up at crime scenes."

John rolled his eyes. "No one is trying to pick me up at crime scenes. You're just paranoid."

"And which one of us is far more observant?" He asked, raising one eyebrow.

He rolled his eyes again. "I think I would notice someone trying to pull me. And besides, you're the only one who would ever think it's appropriate to flirt over a corpse."

"I'm sure I'm not the only one," Sherlock answered with a smile. "Molly has been trying for years." John returned his smile but didn't say anything. He leaned back in his chair, Sherlock's hand still in his, feeling more relaxed than he had in a week.

After a few quiet minutes, Sherlock pulled his hand back, wincing as he rolled his wrist. John sat up straight again, concerned by his friend's obvious discomfort. He wordlessly held his hand out and after a moment's hesitation Sherlock offered him his wrist. The doctor began to carefully manipulate his partner's hand, feeling the way his wrist popped and clicked with the motion. He kept his gaze focused on the detective's face the entire time, cataloging each wince and grimace.

"Did they x-ray your wrist?" John asked, finally placing Sherlock's arm gently on the bed.

Sherlock shook his head. "It was unnecessary. It's just a bit sore, that's all. It'll be fine in a few days - a week tops.

"I'm going to go talk to your doctor," John answered, ignoring Sherlock's attempts at reassurance and standing up. "You need to get that looked at."

The detective sighed and reached out to stop his lover. "John stop; I'm fine. You're making a big deal out of nothing. Just sit down and relax."

"You're not fine, Sherlock. Nothing about this is fine!" He snapped. After a moment he sighed and some of the tension drained out of his shoulders. "Look, I know that in all probability your wrist will be fine, but I can't take the chance that it's not. What if you can't play the violin anymore because we didn't get this checked out? I don't know if I could bear it. Please, Sherlock, let me take care of you."

The man sighed as deeply as he could, considering the state of his ribs, and nodded. "Alright, fine. Go bully the hospital staff into doing what you want."

"Thank you," John replied, dropping a quick kiss onto his boyfriend's lips. "I'll go find your doctor."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You're my doctor, but, yes, I suppose you do need the imbecile who works here to sign the proper paperwork. But be quick about it; this place is painfully dull." John just smiled and kissed him again before walking briskly to the door, almost running into Lestrade on the way out. After awkwardly mumbling a quick apology, John kept going, only to be stopped moments later by Donovan's hand on his arm.

"So you and the Freak, huh?" she asked, raising one eyebrow in obvious derision.

John sighed and firmly stamped down the anger that flared at her tone. "I really don't have time for this right now. Piss off."

Her expression softened slightly, but she didn't release his arm. "Just tell me what you could possibly get out of a relationship with him." He knew he could break her hold on him with almost no effort at all, but for some reason he at least wanted to attempt to make her understand.

"Mutual respect and affection," he stated calmly. "That's what I get out of it."

"Respect?" The Sergeant scoffed, not loosening her grip.

He nodded. "Yes, respect. You've seen our kitchen; he keeps his experiments to the designated areas out of respect. And when was the last time he left me at a crime scene? Or ran off to chase a lead without me? That's respect, and I'm sorry if you're too blind to see it." With that he pulled his arm out of her grasp and walked quickly away, not looking back on her stunned expression. He couldn't be positive, but he was about 90% sure that his friend was smirking from his hospital bed.


	3. Chapter 3

It took John a fair while to find Sherlock's doctor and then a bit longer to convince him to arrange for an x-ray of the detective's wrist, so Sherlock was done giving his statement by the time John returned to the room. Donovan had already left, but Lestrade looked as if he was purposefully stalling so that he wouldn't have to go. John hesitated at the door, torn between doing what he wanted to do (which was to get as close to Sherlock as he could physically manage, as soon as he possibly could) or wait by the door until Lestrade left. Sherlock just raised an eyebrow at him and John took it for the sign that it was, going over to sit on the edge of the bed and folding his friend's hand into his own. Lestrade coughed awkwardly, obviously unsure of how to respond to this new development; neither John nor Sherlock were inclined to help him. The inspector had finally opened his mouth to speak when a nurse came in to take Sherlock in for his x-ray and the man snapped it shut again.

When it was just him and John, Lestrade cleared his throat awkwardly. "So, you and Sherlock then. How long has that been going on?"

"About three months," John answered, his jaw clenching. "Sherlock would probably have a more precise count; sometimes I think he has it down to the hour and minute."

He chuckled. "That sounds like Sherlock. It is a bit surprising though; I mean I had heard the rumours, but I thought that they were just that. I'm happy for you two, though; you're very good for him."

"He's good for me too," he stressed, his fists clenching.

Lestrade nodded quickly. "Of course. We'll have to go out for drinks some time to celebrate, but let me buy you a coffee in the meantime."

"Yeah, that'd be great," John said, finally smiling, relieved that Greg wasn't going to be difficult about their relationship.

Sherlock spent four days in hospital, detoxing and recovering from severe malnutrition. John had insisted on the hospital stay until the iv line was no longer a necessity, but since John was spending as much time with him as he possibly could, Sherlock kept his complaining to a minimum; it was easier to keep quiet when he could see how stressed the entire situation was making him. Withdrawal was never fun, but the worst part was by far after John left at night. Unable to sleep, Sherlock spent hours lying alone, with only his cravings and his thoughts for company. When John was with him, he was able to distract himself from the doubts that he couldn't escape from in the dark. There were all of his fears of relapsing again, which were intensified by his very real memories of how hard getting clean was the last time; the worst part, however, was wondering whether or not John would be there through it all. He knew that the soldier had little patience for addicts normally, and even less when he had to live with them; after all, the man had chosen to live on his own when he could barely afford both housing and food rather than living with his alcoholic of a sister. He couldn't help but ask himself whether John, now that he was in a more secure place, would flinch away from taking the same measures with Sherlock?

John, of course, could tell that something was bothering Sherlock, especially as his love became quieter and quieter as the days progressed. By the time that they made it home, it was almost impossible to get the detective to engage in any sort of conversation. When he had first moved in, John had been warned that his flatmate would occasionally go for days without speaking,but he had not been any where near prepared for how worrying, or how painful, that inevitability would be. He wanted desperately to help his friend, not only as a lover but as a doctor as well. But you couldn't force Sherlock Holmes to do anything, so all he could do was wait and hope that, eventually, Sherlock would either come to him or work it out on his own.

Sherlock, in fact, was not making any progress on his own; he was struggling, and he yearned for John's help. Unfortunately, he knew that voicing his doubts would undoubtedly hurt his partner, and he wanted to avoid that more than he wanted comfort. And so he stayed silent, curled into as tight of a ball he could manage with cracked ribs on the sofa with his back to the world. He knew that his plan of evasion wouldn't work forever; he just hoped that he would come up with a better plan before John got tired of being patient.

As it turned out, John's patience lasted for a week after they got home, and Sherlock was still no closer to coming up with a better plan. The conversation, if you could call it that, devolved quickly, until both men were raising their voices to disturbing levels. It ended with Sherlock shouting that John was "fluttering around uselessly like a mother hen" and then retreating to his bedroom, slamming the door loudly behind him. He half expected the doctor to come and knock on his door like he usually did after a fight about Sherlock's health, but the knock never came and a cold helplessness seemed to settle in the detective's chest. He was more than a little surprised to discover that he was crying; not knowing what else to do, he buried his face in John's pillow and tried to stay as quiet as possible.

It was well after midnight when Sherlock finally left his room again, desperate for some form of hydration. He had assumed that, if he was still in the flat at all, John had gone upstairs to bed; instead, the soldier was was sitting on the floor directly across from his partner's door, his eyes shut and his head leaning back against the wall behind him. He looked as though he was asleep, but when he heard Sherlock come out, he opened one eye to look up at him before shutting it again in order to give Sherlock the opportunity to acknowledge or ignore him as he saw fit. Sherlock hesitated for a moment, frozen where he stood, before going to sit beside his friend; after another moment, he leaned down to rest his head on John's left shoulder. The two men were still for a few seconds before John sighed and moved to push himself to his feet. The rejection was what he had told himself to expect, but he had still hoped. An anguished cry escaped before he clamped his mouth shut, squeezing his eyes closed in an attempt to shut out reality. He couldn't breathe, but he promised himself that he'd lock himself back in his room just as soon as his body started working again. He choked out a whimper when he felt an arm drape over his shoulders, the doctor's heat emanating from his right.

"Hey, I just had to switch sides," he whispered, pressing his forehead against Sherlock's temple. "It's raining and my shoulder's been bothering me." Sherlock nodded but didn't say anything, and after a few more moments, he dared to let his head fall against his partner's shoulder again; this time, John just tightened his grip.

"John," Sherlock said a few minutes later. "Why are you here?"

John sighed heavily, shrugging his shoulders. "You're hurting, Sherlock. Where else would I be?"

"But what good does sitting out here do?" He asked. "All you've accomplished is bothering your shoulder and ensuring that you won't get nearly enough sleep, making you even more irritable and impatient tomorrow."

He sighed again. "Sherlock, can you not do this right now. I really don't want to fight with you again."

"I'm not trying to pick a fight," he answered quietly. "I just don't understand you sometimes."

The doctor pressed a kiss into his friend's hair. "I don't understand you either."

"Will you come to bed?" Sherlock asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "It'll be better for your shoulder to sleep on an actual mattress."

John smiled. "Of course. We have to talk tomorrow, though; you know that, right?" Sherlock just nodded, not bothering to lift his head from John's shoulder.


End file.
